


Certain As the Sun Rising In the East

by ChancellorGriffin



Series: 2017 "The 100" Kink Meme Fills [7]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Beauty and the Beast Fusion, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Beauty and the Beast Elements, Bestiality, Disney Movies, Disney References, F/M, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Size Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2017-04-02
Packaged: 2018-10-13 23:32:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10524225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChancellorGriffin/pseuds/ChancellorGriffin
Summary: Abigail, the feisty and clever daughter of a French mechanical clock designer who lives in the countryside, has been held captive by a Beast who was once a prince named Marcus, cursed by an enchantress as punishment for his arrogance, pride, and philandering ways.  After Abigail and the Beast slowly begin to develop an intimacy with each other, and enjoy a surprisingly romantic evening in the ballroom, Abigail finally unlocks the mystery and realizes what she must do to break the enchantress' curse: go willingly to his bed and lie with him while still in his altered form.But Marcus is still more Beast than man, and Abigail has little idea of what she might be in for . . .





	

**Author's Note:**

> filled prompt from the 2017 "the 100" kink meme on livejournal (LINK TO ORIGINAL POST HERE: http://100kinkmeme.livejournal.com/1753.html?thread=351705#t351705)
> 
> PROMPT: "Kane/Abby Beauty & the Beast AU. After the dance Abby is turned on and horny as fuck and seduces Beast!Kane. His dick is big, but Abby loves it. After she confesses her love for him, he gets turned into a human and they have some dirty sex against the window and everywhere they can reach"

Abigail remained uncertain whether this all had perhaps been a terrible idea until the moment he led her into the ballroom and took her in his arms, and then suddenly everything else besides this moment fell away and the world became very, very simple.   
  
He was impossibly big, impossibly strong, dancing with him was like floating, he was a massive solid bulk of brown fur and blue velvet and she was a yellow cloud. The ballroom was cold, the whole castle was cold, she was always cold, but everywhere he touched her she felt suffused with heat, pulsing through her bloodstream.  
  
She had loved dancing all her life, but it had never felt like this.   
  
Time passed, she had no idea how much – it could have been hours, it could have been years, she was lost inside a golden bubble where nothing existed except the warmth of his body and the rich deep brown of his eyes and the delicious softness of his fur beneath her fingertips. Finally, the music ended, and he set her down, stepping back from her with a gentlemanly bow, which she met with her most elegant curtsey.  
  
“Thank you, Beast,” she said softly. “This was . . . like magic.”  
  
“Will you . . .” He stopped, voice trailing off, as though thinking better of it. She waited a moment, before he spoke again. “Will you call me Marcus?” he asked, voice a low growl with something like entreaty in it. “I have not heard my own name in so long. I am ‘Master,’ or I am ‘Beast.’ There is no one left who remembers Marcus – even I was beginning to forget him – but in your presence I feel him beginning to return.”  
  
“Marcus,” she said softly, trying the word out, savoring the way it sounded. “A noble name. Heroic. Rather dashing.” The Beast gave a snort of derision at this.  
  
“Yes, so my father thought,” he said dryly. “He was very keen on inflating my sense of grandeur at a young age. And you can see,” he added, gesturing hopelessly to the desolate castle around him, “what that folly of pride has brought me.”  
  
Abigail reached up to lay her hand against the silky fur of his cheek. “Marcus, you are not your father,” she told him firmly. “Your past is not who you are. There is more to you than that. There is more in your heart than that.”  
  
He closed his eyes – long, impossibly thick black lashes resting darkly against his rich brown fur. She wanted to bury her face in it, breathe in the deep animal scent of him. What was happening to her? Was it the wine? She had begun to feel dizzy. She stroked his fur with gentle hands, tugging his great shaggy head closer and closer towards her.  
  
“The enchantress wished to teach you a lesson,” Abigail murmured. “It seems to me you have begun to learn it. You have changed so much since the day I first came. Perhaps you have begun to know your true self. Perhaps what you thought was a curse has become the thing that will save your soul.”  
  
“Perhaps it has,” he murmured back, voice a soft deep bass rumble that made her shiver. “But salvation comes at a price.” He opened his warm, dark eyes to look down at her. “Perhaps she has saved my soul. Or perhaps you have. And I am grateful. But neither of you can save _me_.” He swallowed hard, voice rough and hoarse with emotion. “And I cannot save _them_ ,” he growled fiercely, with an expansive gesture taking in the empty ballroom, but Abigail knew what he meant.  
  
“I have seen the rose, Marcus, and it yet lives,” said Abigail, with more hopefulness than she felt. “You still have time. Whatever final quest she has set you, if you tell me what it is, I could help you.”  
  
He looked down at her with something hot and fervent in his wide dark eyes, something that made her shiver, though not with fear. “No,” he finally whispered. “I wish that you could, Abigail. For so many reasons, I wish that you could. But it is a thing I could never ask of you.” His big warm paw slid up her arm to rest on her shoulder, heavy and gentle and comforting, silky fur against bare skin. “You are a pure good thing,” he said sadly, “and I am a monster. It is enough that you have learned to bear my touch. I cannot ask you for more than this.”  
  
Then he let go of her with a sad smile, and left her standing alone in the ballroom, watching his dark shadowy form as he walked away.

* * *

Abigail stood there alone for a long time, mind whirring and clicking like the clockwork gears of one of her father’s elaborate mechanicals. The mystery was finally beginning to unravel.  
  
The servants’ peculiar delight to realize their new prisoner was a woman, instantly transforming her into an honored guest.  
  
Their peculiar whispers about “the one who could break the spell.”  
  
The strange looks she sensed all around her when she and the Beast were alone in each other’s company, as though their every move were being watched by a deeply interested audience.   
  
The Beast’s astonishment the first time she touched him in kindness.  
  
 _“I cannot ask you for more than this.”_  
  
And then she knew.  
  
 _Oh, you fiendishly clever thing,_ she thought bitterly at the enchantress as she lifted her sweeping yellow skirts to make her way boldly up the stairs to the West Wing. As a curse, it was perfect, entirely just and brutally devastating at once, subverting the deepest sins of the Beast who had once been Prince Marcus. He had been a beautiful man. She had seen the portraits everywhere. And impossibly wealthy, too. Not hard to imagine his pride had turned him into that most common of all beings, a powerful man who misuses women with casual cruelty. Not hard to imagine a long line of pretty girls with broken hearts making their way out of his bedroom in the morning, sent off with nary a goodbye. Not hard to imagine a man like that, unable to take the act of love seriously.  
  
And so, the enchantress had taken away the beauty which had been his weapon and his lure, and turned him into a Beast, cursed to remain so forever unless . . .   
  
. . . if Abigail was right . . .   
  
. . . unless he opened his heart to a woman, in his hideous Beast form, and she came willingly to his bed anyway, as an act of love.  
  
He _wanted_ her, she realized with a shock, thinking of the trembling warmth of his velvety paws against her skin, of the strange thing simmering in his dark eyes. He desired her. But he could not say the words. He could not ask.   
  
If he had told her the truth, asked her to come to him, and she had said yes, he would never have been sure – and perhaps, neither would she – whether it was genuine desire, or merely kindness. If he had told her there was a way she could save him, could save them all, who could possibly tell where desire ended and sacrifice began?  
  
No. It must be this way. It must be her, doing the choosing. Her coming to him freely.   
  
Her, naked in his bed, taking him inside her with pure affection and want – not as the handsome, smooth-skinned prince he had once been, but as the Beast she had grown to love, whose touch set her body aflame.  
  
She thought about the men of her village, who would accuse her of witchcraft if they knew what she was about to do . . . if they knew she was making her way up these stairs to lie with a Beast.  
  
She thought about the way her eyes had lit up at the sight of the library, at the way the Beast's gruff expression had softened into something like pure delight at _her_ delight. She thought about all the ways he had learned to be gentle with her.  
  
She thought about the weight of that massive body blanketing hers, of heat and breath and fur on skin.  
  
Yes. With her whole heart, with her whole body, yes.  
  
Heartbeat racing like a martial drum inside her chest, she reached the massive, blackened door that led to the West Wing. When she pushed it open, she saw him exactly where she expected she would – standing over the rose, staring down at it.  
  
Thinking of _her._  
  
Thinking of the thing she had to offer him, the thing which would save all their lives, the thing he wanted more than anything else but which he loved her too much to ask for.  
  
It was the rush of fabric that finally startled him into turning around, alerting him to her presence. He watched in silent shock, frozen, staring, as the delicate confectionary layers of yellow silk shimmered to the floor like a daffodil cloud, and Abigail – now clad only in a plain white shift – stepped out of it.  
  
“I understand now,” she told him in a low voice. “All of it. I understand why she cursed you the way she did and why you would not speak of it to me. I understand what it was, now, the thing you could not let yourself ask.”

“You should not be here,” the Beast growled, but there was no malice in it, no real anger, it sounded to her so much more like grief, like fear. She shook her head.  
  
“I have come willingly,” she told him. “That must have been one of her conditions.” Against his will, he nodded slowly, drawn towards her out of the shadows by some immutable force. “And I came on my own,” she added. “You did not ask me. I put all the pieces together myself.”  
  
“Too damned clever by half,” he muttered under his breath, moving through the drafty room towards her, the dim firelight burnishing his fur into copper and bronze and gold.  
  
“And,” she went on, ignoring him, “I have come for _you_. This is the key, is it not? It is not Marcus the handsome, arrogant prince that I want. It is you, exactly as you are now.”  
  
He stopped short at this, still a few paces away, so she closed the distance between them, reaching out to take his massive paw in her small white hand. He had shed his velvet jacket, she noticed, loose white shirt open nearly to his chest. She rested her hand over his heart and felt it pounding with violent force beneath the thick blanket of fur.  
  
“You cannot possibly want me,” he growled. “It has been so long, Abigail, I am more beast than man.”  
  
“If I had wanted a man, I could have had one very easily,” she retorted, thinking with a sick little shudder of Thelonious. “But I do not. I want _you_. Beast or no, I choose _you_.” She lifted her hand to his face. “I want you,” she whispered again, and he swallowed hard. Her fingertips caressed the soft fur, savoring the sensation of it against her skin. Almost unconsciously, he nuzzled into her hand, just like a tame animal, making her heart turn over inside her chest.   
  
“Abigail, I have never . . . “ He stopped. “It would not be like it was before,” he explained hesitantly. “The way I was before. You would be . . . lying with a beast.”  
  
“I think perhaps you had better take off your clothes,” she said helpfully, before realizing with a pang that he no longer had the ability to dress and undress himself. Lord knows how they managed it between them, cupboards and clocks and candelabras, but someone must have served as the Beast’s valet, because his paws made undressing an impossible task. “Here,” she said finally, relenting, tugging the loose silk shirt over his massive, shaggy mane and dropping it on the floor before her hands moved to the waistband of his velvet breeches.  
  
“Abigail, stop,” he said softly. “You are kind . . . you have always been kind, even when I did not deserve it . . . but I cannot ask you to make this sacrifice for me.”  
  
“Sacrifice?” she repeated, eyebrow raised. “Marcus, you must be blind.”  
  
He stared at her. “What?”  
  
“I did not come here to make a ritual offering of my maidenhead to appease the whims of a fickle enchantress,” she told him impatiently, “I came here because I _want_ you. Very, very badly. I suppose you can be forgiven for not realizing it, when I myself only realized it a few minute ago when we were dancing, but there you have it. I have come ready and willing to your bed, and I care not a whit for my own sake if doing so turns you back into a man or not. I should like to help your servants regain their freedom, but that is not the only reason I came.”  
  
He was frozen, still, unable to move or speak or even breathe as she deftly unfastened the golden buttons of his breeches and let them fall so that the whole of him, Beast from mane to tail, stood bared before her for the first time.  
  
He was extraordinary.  
  
She had thought him hideous when she first arrived, but that had only been fear. No, he was _majestic_ , his coffee-brown fur and mane picking up amber lights from the fire, his horns as smooth and shining as black glass, his body taut with muscle and enormously strong. His face was expressive, even with its animalistic features, even in the dim light, and she could see something soft and vulnerable in his eyes.   
  
All of the power was hers now, and he knew it.  
  
She let her gaze drift downwards, felt his eyes follow her, and inhaled sharply at the sight.  
  
He was right, then. It would unquestionably be lying with a beast; no human man carried an organ of that extraordinary bulk between his thighs.

Abigail felt a shiver run up and down her whole body as she stepped back to take in the impossible bulk of his cock, and was unable to silence the very wicked voice inside her, wondering how much of it was the enchantress’ spell and how much of it belonged to the man he had been before. Every part of his body was larger, broader, thicker, more massive than that of an ordinary man; but even taking this into account, the human prince he’d been must have been remarkably impressive.   
  
She had wondered whether she should find it thick with fur or only bare skin, and was intrigued to find it somewhere in between. The fur grew nowhere near so thick here as on the rest of his heavy pelt; instead, it was light and soft, almost downy, and it was impossible to avoid reaching out a tentative hand to stroke her light fingertips along the iron-hard length.  
  
Instantly the Beast let out a wild low roar, causing Abigail to pull her hand back and retreat for a moment, startled, before she looked into his face and realized what had happened. “Oh,” she murmured, moving closer to him again. “Oh. I see.”  
  
“Abigail,” he muttered gruffly, but she had already resumed her gentle stroking. He made the sound again, but she was not frightened. She felt the cock in her hand grow harder and harder to the touch, and she knew that sound for what it was – desire. It was impossible forget that, as he had told her honestly, he was more beast by now than man, for his moans of pleasure were not in the least human. It was like the great deep bass rumble of a lion’s purr, punctuated from time to time with rough, staccato growls. Abigail lived on a farm, she was not ignorant of the ways of beasts in heat, she had seen dogs and horses and cattle go about this intimate business, and she knew enough to know that when primal urges took over, there was no room for such human considerations as tenderness or restraint. So she was braced, ready, for the Beast – no, Marcus, she told herself; now of all times she must remember his humanity – to growl wildly, knock her backwards onto the mattress, and shred her white shift off her body with his fierce claws.  
  
But he did not.  
  
He lifted her, instead, in impossibly gentle arms and laid her on the bed like a cherished, treasured thing, setting her down atop the heap of ancient damask pillows. “Tell me again that you are certain,” he growled, rough voice throbbing with emotion. “There has never been another woman, since I was cursed with my Beast form, and I cannot know yet what may happen once we cross this threshold.”  
  
“You are afraid your Beast self will take over,” she prompted him gently. “That you may be more animal than man, that you may . . . use me roughly.” He said nothing, but his deep brown eyes showed her how true this was. “I am not afraid of you,” she told him, tugging her shift off over her head and lying back, white and naked and ready, looking up at him with trust in her eyes. He gazed down at her hungrily, eyes raking over her body with wolfish desire. “This is the test, is it not?” she went on. “She wished to know whether you had learned kindness, even in your Beast form, enough that a woman might feel safe lying naked in your presence, making herself vulnerable to you, permitting herself to be ravished by you with no fear. So here I am. I have come willingly to your bed. I am the one doing the asking.” She held out her hand, and he knelt by the side of the bed, taking her hand in his massive paw. “Make love to me,” she whispered, trembling with something that was not fear. “Please.”  
  
“Abigail,” he whispered, rough and low. “Oh, Abigail.”  
  
And then everything was hot breath and silky fur and pounding heartbeats and Abigail forgot everything in the whole world that was not him.

He began with his mouth, and by the time he was finished she felt as though she had melted into liquid. He had the broad, silky-rough tongue of a wolf or a bear, warm and ravenous, and he bathed her whole body with it. He began with her feet and ankles, then gliding slow delicious trails up her slender pale legs to the soft skin of her thighs. He skirted decorously past the dark triangle of silken brown hair as he passed by it to lick at her stomach, but he did pause to inhale deeply, shivering at her own animal scent. He lapped hot circles over her breasts, making her dissolve into weak, gasping moans of pleasure, nipples rising into aching peaks as his rough tongue grazed over the tip. He let himself linger here, as her hands clutched wildly at his mane, stroking the magnificent fur, feeling heat begin to pool between her thighs. He moved from her breasts to her hands, one by one, licking his way up from her palm to her wrist to her forearm, then up past her elbow to her shoulders before nuzzling, wild and ferocious, into the hollow of her throat. She held him there for a long time, feeling his impossibly massive body settle onto hers, like the most glorious fur blanket in all the world. His velvety nose and hot mouth brushed against her skin, making her feel faint.   
  
She clutched at his mane, tugging hard enough to lift his shaggy dark head from her throat and pull it down against her own. “Your body may bear many beastly traits,” she murmured, “but you are human enough to kiss me.”  
  
“Abigail –"  
  
“Kiss me,” she whispered again, somewhere between command and entreaty, and so he did.  
  
It was nothing like any kiss she had ever received. His lips were thick and full and soft, his tongue massive, sweeping hot and hard across her rosy lips to coax them open. She could not take his tongue with her own mouth, but she took her pleasure greedily anyway, flicking it with her own tongue, sucking lightly on his plush lips, tasting the low vibrating rumbles emanating from his chest as he groaned into her little pink mouth. His teeth were wickedly sharp, but he was so gentle with her that she was not afraid of them at all.  
  
“I have yearned for so long to be able to kiss you properly,” he murmured in something like apology as he finally lifted his head. “I am no longer formed for it.”  
  
“You acquit yourself very well for someone trapped inside a body not his own,” she told him, running her hands through the lush fur of his jaw and smiling as he closed his eyes in pleasure, nuzzling into her hand. “Everything you do to me feels wonderful.”   
  
The Beast gave something that might have been a small, pleased smile, letting one heavy velvet paw rest on her smooth white stomach. “I have a man’s soul, but a Beast’s senses,” he rumbled into her ear. “Everything has become . . . heightened.” He licked hungrily at her throat again, and she shivered. “Oh God, Abigail, the taste of you . . . the smell of you . . . I am intoxicated.”  
  
“You are in heat,” she corrected him, a flicker of mischief in her voice. “You forget, Beast, you may have been raised in a castle but I was bred on a farm. I suspect I know far more about the ways of love among beasts than you do.”  
  
“And now you have managed to strip the romance from it altogether,” he complained, though she could tell he was repressing a laugh. “I was attempting to pay you a compliment and now you have compared me to a horse.”  
  
“You are a great deal better than a horse,” she assured him, kissing his soft cheek. “You have been very courtly thus far. Horses are no gentlemen. My experience with the act may be rather limited – nonexistent, in point of fact – but I have not observed that lady horses take any great deal of enjoyment from it.”  
  
“Nonexistent? You mean you have never . . . taken a man to bed?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“And yet you seem already to know you will enjoy the sensation?”  
  
She laughed a little at his confusion. “For an enterprising young woman in the countryside with few satisfactory options,” she informed him primly, “a wide array of useful devices may be obtained from Paris, by special order in very innocent plain brown paper parcels, if one is fortunate enough to live with a father who never fetches the post himself.”

The Beast gave a low, warm, rumbling chuckle into the hollow of her throat. “You are an extraordinary woman, Abigail,” he murmured, resuming his ministrations of lips and tongue, savoring her sighs of bliss before finally making his way back down again toward the apex of her thighs. He rested his massive, shaggy head on the delicate angular bones of her hips for a long time, breathing her in, deep greedy inhales of Abigail’s most intimate scent, emitting a low humming growl of pleasure, like a lion’s purr. His breath was hot and damp, making her tremble, and she felt her heart pound as she sank her hands into his thick mane and clutched the dark hair in her little fists.  
  
She could feel the internal war between man and beast occurring inside him. This, quite obviously, was not a maneuver from that handbook of lovers’ tricks which had led him to such trouble with the enchantress. Prince Marcus had never done this. No, this was how wild creatures did it, lured in and intoxicated by scent, and the Beast was claiming her as his own in a primal way even he, perhaps, did not understand. She tangled her hands in his thick mane, reveling in the lush softness, and then very carefully lifted one slender white leg from the mattress to rest in the hollow between his broad square shoulder and massive, sinewed neck, opening herself up to him. Then, very gently, she clutched at his hair and guided his head lower, a clear invitation. “I sense you fighting it,” she murmured. “I sense you holding back, for fear of hurting me.”  
  
“Abigail –"  
  
“Let go,” she commanded him in a gentle voice. “I offer myself to you freely. Take anything you like.”  
  
“I can make you no guarantees of self-control,” he growled, voice muffled by her soft skin.  
  
“I require none,” she told him honestly. “I trust you.”  
  
“Abigail, I –"  
  
“Please,” she whispered, beginning to tremble. “Marcus, please. Let go.”  
  
And so, with a low roar, he finally let go.  
  
When he bent his head to devour her damp, aching cunt with his hot, heavy, panting mouth, it took all the restraint in her body to keep from screaming. She held herself as still as she could – no sudden movements, no startling him, he was so careful with his teeth but still, there they were. But oh God, his _tongue_ , his rough ravenous animal’s tongue, his massive plush lips, the heat of his breath, his soft velvet nose nudging at her clit, and his fur, warm silken fur everywhere, caressing every inch of her skin. Abigail closed her eyes and felt her body melt into the mattress. Orgasm came almost immediately, rushing over her like a tidal wave, and she could feel a pleased little growl reverberate inside her as the Beast hungrily lapped up the onrush of wetness he had drawn forth. He nuzzled in deeper and deeper, as though starving, obsessed with the taste of her, and even though no one had ever done this to Abigail before she knew enough to know that this was not usual, that ordinary men did not always do this, that they did not take such wild pleasure in bringing pleasure to the woman in their bed. But the Beast was insatiable, that great hot tongue lapping up her center as warm damp breath stirred the silken hair of her cunt and two massive paws clutched at her slim thighs, holding her in place. Her fingers tangled dreamily in his shaggy mane, stroking, caressing, and she could feel him purr with pleasure at her touch as he brought her a second time to a shattering climax, even bigger than the first. Her back arched off the mattress as she cried out, gasping, fisting his mane, and as he withdrew he left one last hot, damp kiss on the downy fur of her cunt, breathing in deeply one last time before climbing on all fours back up to the head of the bed.  
  
“Oh,” was all she could say as he settled his heavy body over hers again and nuzzled into her neck. “Oh, Marcus.”  
  
“In all my life I never took such pleasure from such an act,” he growled low into her ear. “It is as though I am starved for you. Your taste, your scent. The sounds you make. Oh God, Abigail, I had no idea it could be like this.”  
  
“In all my life,” she whispered back, burying her face in his silken hair as he shifted his weight above her, massive warm cock resting against her thigh, “nothing has ever felt like this. I could never have imagined it.”

“May I,” he asked, his whole great shaggy body almost trembling with pent-up arousal, and Abigail loved him for it more than she could possibly say, for the way the man was winning the war with the beast. He had held back the clash of nearly violent animal instincts leaping and surging in his bloodstream while he bathed her body in hot kisses and brought her to climax twice, to make her ready for him. The Beast was a better man than the man, she thought, as she opened her thighs to take him in.  
  
“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes.”  
  
He had left her extraordinarily wet, which helped a great deal, and he restrained himself with herculean strength, pushing inside as slowly as he could, even though she could feel him shaking in her arms from the exertion. But he was massive, the pressure inside her was very near to pain at first, and her hands gripped his hair so tightly she was afraid she would hurt him. But he seemed scarcely to feel it, wide black eyes fixed and intense on hers, hot panting breath rushing over her face and hair as he grunted and growled and moved slowly deeper and deeper. “Are you all right?” he asked her over and over, waiting for her to nod breathlessly and tell him to continue as she felt him stretch her open from the inside, the delicious shiver of damp fur against her walls as his massive cock made its way deeper and deeper. She could take only a bit less than half, at first, before her body tensed up and he instantly paused in his tracks, watching her carefully to make certain she was not in pain.  
  
“Stay here,” she whispered, and felt him settle over her, nuzzling into her neck again as her arms went around his back. “Stay here, just for a moment. Let me just . . . let me get used to you.”  
  
“Do I pain you?”  
  
“Pressure, a little,” she replied honestly, as his warm paws stroked her abdomen to soothe and relax her. “Not pain. Only the enchantress appears to have been quite generous with your endowments, and I need a moment to catch my breath.”  
  
She felt the low rumble of a chuckle against the skin of her throat. “You make me laugh,” he said, in a tone of something like wonder. “Until I met you, I believed I had forgotten how. I feel human again, when you make me laugh.”  
  
“Until I met you,” she murmured, “I believed I was not formed to feel this way about anyone. I thought it was impossible for me.”  
  
He looked down at her, his sharp eyes missing nothing, reading on her face the unspoken words – or word, really, only the one that mattered – hidden inside the thing she had just said. She looked back at him, knowing that he knew.  
  
“You may . . . keep going,” she whispered, biting her lip and holding onto him tightly. “I am ready for you.”   
  
So he pushed in deeper, all hot breath and low rough panting growls of pleasure, as Abigail cried out and felt him stretch her open to the bursting point, until she thought her body could take no more of him, until she could open no further, yet somehow opened further to him anyway. When at last, after what felt like hours, even days, he had filled her up so deeply that she could feel the heavy press of two warm mounds, covered in silken fur, pressing hard against her cunt, they were both out of breath and gasping. The Beast could not speak; the effort of translating his animal sensations into human words seemed altogether too much for him. He simply nosed hungrily into her throat and shoulder, warm tongue lapping at her skin, and let his muffled roars of pleasure say all that needed to be said.  
  
Abigail, shattered and trembling, sweat trickling between her breasts, could not speak either. She clutched wildly at his fur, holding him there, breathing deep, cradling him inside her thighs, her soft fluttering murmurs deepening into frantic cries as she felt herself begin to relax inside to accommodate him, letting the pleasure push through the pain.   
  
When he began to move on top of her, gliding in and out, she was unprepared for the sensation and gasped so loudly it was nearly a scream, startled by pleasure.  
  
“Are you – “  
  
“Don’t stop,” she pleaded with him. “Marcus, I beg of you. Don’t stop.”

So he obeyed her, impossibly powerful body pressing down on hers, cock pumping in and out of her, leaving her sobbing with pleasure. He was no longer able to speak, it was as though the man was beginning to fade away and the Beast in heat had taken over. No more kisses, only hot licks of his rough tongue up and down her throat. No more words, only rumbling grunts and roars and animal sounds of lust. No more tender ministrations all over her body, only the urgent, wild rhythm that locked them both together.  
  
Abby did not care. This was what she had come for, after all. This was what she wanted. And oh God, the pleasure surging through her. Could any ordinary man ever satisfy her again after this?   
  
She came and came and came again, but the Beast was in the grip of something primal and uncontrollable and he neither stopped nor slowed his frantic, driving pace, no matter how many times she cried out, clutching more and more wildly at his mane, at his shoulders, at his back. The waves of climax began to crash into each other, like throwing rock after rock into a lake and watching the ripples collide. Soon she was nothing but trembling white flesh and broken, gasping moans and fierce little hands digging desperately into brown fur, holding on for dear life.  
  
She could feel his orgasm coming upon him before even he seemed aware of it, the quivering cock that drove her down and down – as though to pin her to the mattress like a preserved butterfly – beginning to leap and twitch inside her cunt, pressure steadily building. Opening her thighs wide, hooking her taut, slender legs – made strong from riding – around his great shaggy body, she planted her hands on his massive chest and pushed, as hard as she could, rolling him over onto his back, where he landed with a thud. “Let me,” she whispered, straddling him, hips working up and down in slow, deep strokes. He roared gruffly at her, but she shook her head. “I have tamed a wild Beast,” she murmured, digging small white fingers into the thick pelt of his broad chest, clutching at the rich fur. “I wish to ride him.”  
  
“Abigail,” he growled, the single word a violent struggle, but she held him down, and he permitted himself to be held. He could, of course, have thrown her down and forced her to finish him fast and hard, the way he had wanted; he was three times her size, with claws and teeth. But this was part of the test as well, was it not, the notion that even at his most primal, he still maintained his humanity? That even as his whole beastly body screamed out for physical sensation, his love for Abigail could still guide him.  
  
“Yes, love,” she whispered, an almost unbearably forceful climax building up inside her, feeling him tremble inside her, growing closer and closer to the end. “Yes.”   
  
When he came inside her, he roared like a wild animal in pain, loudly enough to wake the castle, hot animal breath against her hair and skin, warm liquid rushing into her as she sank down harder and harder onto his cock, pressing every last drop out of him. He filled her more than full, she could not hold all of him, she felt sticky trails of warmth make their way down her thighs and belly and legs, lapped up thirstily by that gloriously rough tongue.  
  
When the storm finally subsided, she tumbled bonelessly off his body and let him wrap her in those warm, silken-furred, powerful arms, holding her close. She leaned over his chest and pressed kisses all over his cheeks and jaw.  
  
“I never knew it could feel like this, to bring a woman pleasure,” he whispered to her, his voice so low it rumbled like a bass drum and sent shivers up and down her spine. “I would remain a Beast for the rest of my days, to have this with you one more time.”   
  
“That is a most generous offer, but I hardly require such a commitment as that,” she murmured back, the hint of a wry smile in her voice. “You may have me as many times as you like. Let me rest, and catch my breath, but I suspect I shall want you a good deal more before the night is through.”  
  
“Then rest, love,” he purred low and gentle into her hair, and his arms wrapped her close, and she realized for the first time since she arrived at the castle she felt perfectly, entirely happy.

 

 


End file.
